


The World Spins Madly On

by madasthesea



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: But written pre 5.13, Gen, Lake of Avalon, Post 5.13, if that makes sense, so slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madasthesea/pseuds/madasthesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin visits the Lake of Avalon as he waits for the Once and Future King to return to him. </p>
<p>As time moves on and Merlin is left alone, he finds his only comfort is in speaking to the water in hopes that Arthur can hear him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Spins Madly On

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello all! Just for some helpful info, I imagine Arthur dying in about 560 AD, so that’s what the dates are based off of. Also, I got the title and some inspiration from ”Thought of You” by The Weepies, which is a fantastic song that I highly recommend as well as OneDarkandStormyNight’s “The Voice in the Dream” on ff.net which is possibly one of the best fanfics I’ve ever read, so go read it! Also, I wrote this before the end of Season 5, so there are a few pieces that don’t quite fit with canon, but not too many. Please tell me what you all think, I’d love to hear from you! Thank you and enjoy!

 

The Lake of Avalon was a unique place in the world of men. It was an anchor of the magical world, a doorway to the rest that death offered. It was surrounded by pulsing, breathing magic. The mountains standing firm behind a lake a black glass, with a forest encroaching on every side. It was a sanctuary of the Old Religion, never changing, always powerful and still. It was one of Merlin’s favorite places in Camelot. At least, it had been when everything was still right with the world.

It had been nine days since the death of the king. Camelot’s king. _Merlin’s_ king. And now there was nothing for the warlock to do. There was no longer any purpose behind his storm cloud colored eyes. He had remained in Camelot only long enough for the proper services to be administered to his monarch. He was the only one left to do so, after the slaughter in the citadel and the battle that had caused the death of so, so many. It had been difficult, standing in the plaza of a once grand castle, with the enemy bodies littering the corridors and staircases, after he had just lost not only all of his friends, but _half of his soul,_ without a kind face in sight. The pyre had burned pure gold as Emrys recited rites and prayers and enchantments over the scarlet cape and tarnished crown of the greatest king to ever reign. He never wanted to see a fire again. Then he had run, as far and as fast as his eternally young body could carry him. His enemies, that still swarmed Arthur’s kingdom, had thought he was fleeing, but in reality he was sparing them. He did not think he could keep a hold of his magic if he were to meet Arthur’s killer — _murderer —_ and what was the point of another ten; hundred; thousand deaths if Arthur was gone? If it protected no one, if he had already failed his master, Merlin could see no reason behind it. And now, after miles and days, his feet brought him here, a place so beautiful and peaceful, and still so very painful.

He stared at the water, sitting at its edge, as the sun sank behind the mountains, with the first of the winter’s snow still clinging to the high summits. He had a thought that had been flitting around his head for several hours now, and the darkness seemed to give him enough courage to act on it. He stood and made his way into the water, his magic keeping the cold from truly reaching him. When he was up to his knees in the dark water, he stopped and let his magic flow to the surface of his body, his eyes burning gold. He took a breath- shuddering and shallow and a little bit painful, as every breath had been since Arthur had taken his last-and called to the surrounding silence.

“Oh, gods of the Old Religion, I have served you for many long years,” he spoke, his voice hoarse and thick from the days on end of not speaking. “I have done everything within my power to protect the Once and Future King since before he took the throne and united Albion. I have watched many of the people I love die and I have not cursed you for it. And I know that-” he broke off. Arthur’s name was painful to say especially when juxtaposed with the terrible, unchangeable word that was meant to follow. “I know that Arthur’s death was inevitable, that this had to come to pass. I have worked tirelessly to protect and advise him. And please, if I may ask, one favor. That’s all I want in return. I will wait as long as necessary for the return of King Arthur.” Merlin was starting to lose his nerve now, his well thought out speech beginning to fall into rambling, so he spit his request out quickly. “I’d like to see Freya. Just for a moment. Please. That’s the favor I ask.”

The water, the trees, the very air was still, as though waiting as anxiously as the man in the water was. He waited for five minutes. Surely, they would answer. Surely they would not leave their prophesied deliverer with nothing but his greatest friend’s death to remember in his ages of solitude. But no answer came.

“As a reward, then,” he called again, refusing to lose the last bit of hope that still clung to him. “I have done much for this land and for magic. I have given my life. Do I not deserve even this small comfort?”

Merlin finally waded out of the water after another half hour of waiting, when the sun was as if it had never filled the land with light and the stars were beginning to paint their strange pictures in the inky black. _No,_ he thought as he rolled down his trouser legs and pulled on his boots, _I suppose I have not done enough. I suppose I do not deserve a reward. Arthur is dead, after all._ He stood and looked at the barely rippling water again. He had left Freya here, and Lancelot. He had read his father’s rites here, because he had no body to burn. And now he was left, more alone than ever before, for now even Arthur was gone. He strode once more to the shore of the vast lake, and whispered a word in the language of the Old Religion, and then pushed outward, so that the small flowers that had appeared in the water floated towards the center. They were the only gift left that he could give his fallen friends. And then he wandered off into the dark.

 

**Forty Two Years**

A figure appeared out of nothing, and then immediately collapsed to the ground. The coughing that echoed over the icy water sounded wet and painful. Merlin, looking exactly the same as the day he had turned and walked away from this same body of water, from the dark, short hair, to the pained, mysterious eyes, rolled with a grunt of pain onto his back. The only changes were his clothes, which were more worn and faded, but most importantly, ripped to shreds. Blood had changed the blue tunic to a macabre dark red.

The apparently young warlock was struggling for breath, his forehead slicked with sweat. He had learned by now that he could not die, no matter how fatal the wounds seemed. But they still hurt. The deep ribbons of ripped flesh hurt like death. And in Merlin’s panic to get away from the creature that had been causing the pain, he had let his magic lose, taking him wherever it wanted. He only wished it hadn’t been here. He didn’t want to mare this beautiful, almost sacred place with his blood, his suffering.

He knew the wounds would take a long time to heal, giving anyone the false impression that Merlin had barely evaded death and was now taking the usual time necessary to recover from such “life threatening” damage. He wished they would not. He wished they would heal as soon as he received them. Or, the darker, angrier, _lonelier_ part of his mind whispered, that they would not heal at all. That these apparently fatal wounds would become so and save him from his empty existence.

Another sharp pain in his side pulled him from his contemplation. Broken ribs as well, then. He groaned aloud. He was tired, very tired. He just wanted to sleep and not feel the pain. Not think. He groaned again, not feeling guilty for there was no one to disrupt or annoy with his pain here.

_Emrys,_ a voice like a lullaby whispered into his head. He jumped, and groaned again at the pain. He had not been called that in a very long time. Not since Arthur passed and Camelot fell. And he had not felt the strange humming in his skull that was a magical creature’s way of communicating in even longer.

_Emrys, come to the water. It will help you._ Merlin wasn’t entirely sure he could make from where he was laying at the edge of the forest all the way to calmly lapping water. But he gritted his teeth, not one to ignore a magical being, especially when it offered help, and struggled forward, using magic to help him reach his goal. Finally, gasping and in so much pain his vision was blinking in and out, he collapsed into the shallow tide.

Slowly, with a warm, tingling sensation, water began to work its way up Merlin’s arms and around his rapidly moving chest. He grunted when it reached the first large gash in his alabaster skin, but then sighed in relief as his pain slowly ebbed. _Sleep, Emrys. You will not be harmed here,_ the soft, sweet voices whispered. And Merlin, eager to follow that direction, fell into a dreamless, restful sleep for the first time in forty-two years.

 

**One Hundred Years**

A century of cold. A century of dark and quiet. A century of loneliness. Merlin was so very tired of being alone. He was so tired of his life being silent and still and nothing but him. And he could not keep himself away from the lake, the only place he had felt even the slightest bit of comfort for exactly one hundred, long years.

His mind felt funny. Blurred and detached from his body. A hundred years and his face had not changed. Not a wrinkle or a gray hair or even a new scar. But he felt old. He had been on this earth far too long. His soul, which had been torn in two so long ago when his king- his friend, his master, his brother, his other half- and been taken from this world, was weary. He did not feel whole. He did not even feel truly alive. There would be moments, when he would go to a new place or learn a new language or see someone do something so _good_ that his hope was restored, that his mouth would turn up in a grin and his eyes would sparkle. But he feared they were not enough to call the way he carried on through this immortal life living.

What scared him most about this was that he had promised his beloved king that he would not let his long, solitary life turn him into something like Morgana. He would not let his power and his pain change him. It was a difficult promise to keep, but Merlin knew he would not let this last vow to Arthur be broken. How would he be able to stand the look in Arthur’s eyes when he finally returned and saw not his beloved manservant turned court sorcerer Merlin, but the powerful, immortal, _vengeful_ Emrys? He simply could not allow it, no matter how hard he had to fight to see the good in the world.

“Arthur,” he whispered to the air, which was humming and shifting and sparkling with magic. “I miss you.” And that confession, those words which he thought _every day_ for the past hundred years, but never spoken aloud broke his fragile barriers. The tears he had been holding back for a century spilled over.  He had not let himself really cry since he had come to the Lake of Avalon immediately following the great king’s death. But now, he allowed himself to mourn.

He cried for Camelot, which had been more of a home to him than Ealdor ever was. That great city, the greatest in the five kingdoms that had fallen with her greatest king. The ruins still stood, the echoes of Merlin’s past, when every day he had been living -- with Arthur and Gaius and sneaking food from the kitchens and laughing with the knights and using magic though it was against the law -- not just existing, flickering past Merlin’s wise eyes every time he saw them. He could see gold dragons on scarlet cloaks and the constant flow of people and hear the cry of “For the love of Camelot!” still echoing off the stones. And then the memories would fade and it would just be Merlin again.

He mourned for the friends and good people of Camelot who had given their lives to protect their king. They had welcomed magic back to the land and loved Arthur until the end. He remembered the faces of the crowd, upturned to the balcony of the castle and how they had bowed when he was officially announced Court Sorcerer. And he remembered seeing the bodies of the knights on the battlefield and the women and children in the citadel, pale and bloody and eyes glassy.

But it was Arthur he sobbed for. The man who had turned from a boy who needed to be taught a lesson to a king whom he loved with his entire being. Arthur Pendragon, his destiny, his greatest pride, his purpose in life. He had come to believe Kilgarrah’s description of the king and his warlock—two sides of the same coin—without a doubt. He was Arthur’s and Arthur was his and now he was alone. The memories of he and Arthur that became so alive in his dreams had been the greatest comfort he could find in the last hundred years. Visions of the two men of legend, whether it was fighting great battles—standing back to back surrounded by a ragged army of bandits, Arthur searching for Merlin before he spared Queen Anis’ champion, the king carrying the servant away from danger—or laughing in Arthur’s chambers late into the night—when Merlin had recounted the details of when someone had befallen a particularly interesting enchantment, after Arthur’s thirtieth birthday celebration, when the king had finally realized that Merlin and Dragoon the Great were one and the same—had made the waiting more bearable. Arthur had made Merlin whole, made him brave and wise and compassionate. And he missed him with such ferocity that he had trouble remembering when his chest had not felt empty and hollow. He wondered if the gods had even considered that he would grow to love this king that they had entwined his destiny with.   

He clutched at the ring that hung from a leather cord around his neck. The silver was scratched and dented and the little golden dragon carved into the side was worn, but it was the only thing Merlin really had left of Arthur, so he held it close and struggled to calm the erratic breaths that were tearing through his chest.

”Arthur,” he called again, once he was able to force sound from his throat. “How is Avalon? I saw it once, just for a second. It was the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I’m trying not to be too jealous.” He shook his head at himself because everything he said felt wrong, but the words spilled out like water from cupped hands. “I don’t know how much longer the gods demand that I wait for you. But, I suppose, since it’s you I’m waiting for it doesn’t matter. I know you’ll come eventually…” Merlin trailed off. “Eventually” felt like it would be a long time.

The mighty warlock stood, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, and walked back to the dark, damp forest. He turned round again at the edge of the trees, and looked back at the picturesque landscape, glowing with liquid silver in the moonlight.

“Hurry, Arthur.”

 

**Three Hundred and Seventy Eight Years**

As soon as Merlin had found the book, he had decided to come again to Avalon. It was the only place where he felt Arthur could actually hear him. So, when the young ancient settled on the shore of the lake in the warm spring morning, he did not feel quite so ridiculous for speaking to nothing more than a body of water and a passing rabbit.

“Arthur, you won’t believe this,” he said as though the king in question was sitting right next to him. “They’ve written a book about us. Who’d have thought it? The arrogant prince and the serving boy, preserved forever in the pages of a book. It’s not very accurate. In fact, they seem to think you were some kind of miracle, sent by the gods… Oh. I suppose you kind of were, huh?” The warlock’s ocean blue eyes held a light in them that had not been there for a long time. The corners of his eyes creased as he smiled out at the tranquil waters.

“This part is one of my favorites,” he continued, holding up the bound pages of thick parchment and beginning to read aloud. He read his king tales about Arthur of Camelot and his mentor, Merlin. He had laughed till his sides hurt about the description of the mage, elderly, and wise, and a little crazy, who had the ability to see and visit the future, who would live forever, who wandered through life in a ridiculous robe and hat, who was somehow based off of the eternally young warlock who had scrubbed floors and served dinners for the first thirteen years of his life with Arthur. He laughed at accounts of the battles and foes they had faced, even jumping up at one particularly exciting—and ridiculous—tale of Arthur slaying a creature straight from myths, to enact the victorious fight.

Finally, with Merlin still laughing, the book was closed and set on the grass. He remained a while longer, the sun beginning to set and turning the water to a pool of glowing gold.

“Guess they won’t forget us, after all, will they?” He asked, a soft smile just barely fading from his lips. He stood, leaving the book entirely forgotten in the grass, and disappeared into the air.

 

**Seven Hundred and Forty Years**  

Merlin stumbled out of the forest, smelling of smoke, with fear and anger burning intensely in his slate blue eyes. The time that had passed since his last visit was obvious and drastic. Though the man’s face appeared exactly as it had the previous times—a little dirtier, a little more tired, but easily recognizable—his eyes seemed darker and fiercer. They shone with an intensity that would have made anyone cower. He looked angry. No, furious, betrayed, his entire body shaking.

“How could you?” His shout was deep and powerful and made even the wind stop dead. “I gave my life; _Arthur_ gave his life to unite Albion, to free magic and all those with it! And you just let it fall apart.” 

He stormed toward the shore, but stopped dead at the edge of the water. His face was twisted into a very not Merlin like expression. The air was whipping around the young man, screaming through the trees. The clear night sky was clouding over quickly, cutting off any light from the stars. A tempest began to beat upon the water, as if punishing it for the gods’ betrayal. His eyes were turning to gold in his righteous fury, and the elements bent to his will, pulling apart the once tranquil forest.

“People are _burning._ Being drowned and stoned and hanged. Men, women, _children_! Good people, hundreds of them, all because they do not condemn magic. It’s worse than the Great Purge, and you’re just letting it happen!” Merlin was furious. The gods of the Old Religion had dictated his life, given him a destiny and no choice. He had, maybe naively, thought that once magic was freed, it would be free forever. And now, his nightmares were coming back to life. He was being hunted. People had begun to notice his never changing face, his old fashioned way of speaking, how impossibly old his eyes looked in his young face.

“I thought magic was supposed to be a blessing! A favor from the gods. And now those with it are being wiped from the earth. How is that fair? Is this how you repay what I did for you? Freezing me in time while the world gets darker and making me stand by and watch people die for what I taught them?” His voice broke, tired of the strenuous yelling. His next words were whispered, almost a plea.

“If this is the price to pay for having my magic, for being Emrys, then I don’t want it. Take my magic. I don’t want it anymore, it doesn’t help anyone,” he muttered, bitterness and lifetimes of sadness weighing down his young shoulders. “Please let me go to Arthur. I am so tired. I am so alone and so lost and I don’t know why I’m here anymore. Please let me be by his side again.” The wind that had been spinning wildly died. The clouds began to part and the stars peeked through timidly. “I don’t want to see anyone else die.”

The warlock sighed, his rage at the unjust gods still there, but his energy gone. He stared into the water for several long moments, wishing desperately that he could see that glowing, magical place he had glimpsed once before. But the water remained black and still. Merlin vanished at the edge of the forest.

 

**One Thousand, Two Hundred and Three Years**

The world was changing quickly. For several hundred years of Merlin’s immortal life, things remained basically stagnant. Kings fought over land and peasants farmed in the day and huddled around small hearths with a meager meal at night. But now, it was as if a fever had struck the people of the world. People were inventing and exploring and rebelling against what had been believed for so long. Merlin himself had watched a small, new country break away from their home land for the first time in history. Life was different and strange and it _just kept changing_.

Merlin had come to Avalon for the peace that it brought. This little lake in the middle of the mountains in what was now Wales was the only place he could find that had remained, as he, just the same as when Arthur had walked the earth. He felt like everyone and everything around him was rushing on, never stopping, just racing through life while he was stuck still trying to adjust to the most recent language or change in fashion or religious beliefs.

His long life of waiting had given him a strange view on time. The hundreds of years, over a millennium now, that he had dwelt on this earth, had made a year, even ten years, seem insignificant and incredibly short. But, paradoxically, each month seemed to drag on for a lifetime. He was in a constant state of waiting. He was waiting for his other half, his soul mate, his _king_ to return to him and ease his troubled mind. And as each year passed and it been another twelve months since he had seen Arthur’s smile, time seemed to pass even slower. The result made Merlin’s life a dizzying cacophony of progression and cessation.

The young man settled with his back against a tree, watching the water ripple gently when the leaves fell onto its surface. He was grateful for the stillness. He wondered what Arthur would say if he were to see how much everything had changed, see the ruins of great castles and the fields that were now houses.

“It’ll be so different when you finally get here, Arthur,” he sighed, tired but a little hopeful. “I wonder if you’ll like it.”

Merlin slept at the edge of the forest that night, as he had done over a thousand years ago, the peace and stillness of the entrance to Avalon echoing in his dreams. Above him the stars made their way across the blackness of the sky as the world spun tirelessly on.

 

**One Thousand, Four Hundred and Forty Three Years**     

Merlin blinked in surprise when he found himself suddenly surrounded by trees. He had not meant to come to Avalon. In fact, he had been expecting somewhere in the Italian Alps, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt. But as soon as he accepted where he was, he figured out why he was there. A small ‘oh’ of understanding passed through his lips. The air was humming with life, the gentle breeze carrying glimmers of gold as it raced through the trees. The summer air smelled like earth and flowers and _magic_. The biggest smile he had given in almost fifteen hundred years graced his lips. _Soon_.

The warlock had been praying for almost a century now that the Once and Future King would quickly return to save Albion. The world had fallen to madness. There had been wars that shook the world, violence and anger in every city Merlin had visited. The wild places of the earth were disappearing, morals were crumbling. There were murders and assaults and crimes every day, every hour. Corruption filled every government and poverty was spreading. And people had long stopped believing in magic. If ever the world needed someone, if ever they needed Arthur, it was now.

Merlin had been preparing and waiting with baited breath for decades. He could feel it in his magic, in his very soul that it was _almost here_. His body tingled every time he called on his power and his dreams were full of intoxicating memories. Arthur was _coming_. His solitude was almost over, he was almost _free_. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling his own magic jump in response to that surrounding him.

It was almost here, but not quite. He could tell. He had waited all these years, through all these ages and lifetimes. He could wait for a few more insignificant years. A smile graced Merlin’s mouth once more before the warlock who looked so young, but was so, so old vanished, leaving a scent of ancient, powerful magic behind him.

 

**One Thousand, Four Hundred and Fifty Years**

There was a small pop that disrupted the still air before Merlin came stumbling out of the forest shade. He had felt the magic shifting from halfway around the world. He had practically sprinted to the nearest alleyway of the busy Hong Kong street, apologizing in quick Mandarin when he ran into several people in his urgency, before steeping into the shadows and disappearing.

Merlin was rushing, hoping that the sooner he got to the dark, still water, the sooner its surface would be broken with a familiar, glittering sword. His haste made him clumsier than he has been in centuries, making him trip and stumble over roots and uneven patches of grass. Tears were already starting to slide down his cheeks in his excitement.

Even after Merlin’s millennium and a half on the earth, there was nothing that was comparable to the joy that was rushing through his veins so forcefully it left him breathless. After picking himself off the ground several times, he reached the bank of the lake that had been the only constant—apart from the loneliness that he didn’t like to think about—in his long life. He fell to his knees, too light-headed to stay upright.

“Arthur,” he whispered, holding his breath in anticipation. He stretched forth one trembling hand, unsure of himself for the first time in ages. He didn’t know how to call his king from his rest in Avalon. But slowly, he let his hand fall into the water and watched in terrified glee as tendrils of gold started to bleed from his fingertips, turning the water the color of a sunrise.

Merlin’s magic spread throughout the lake, filling the air with the sweet scent of summer and the faint sound of reed pipes. And finally— _finally—_ the water began to ripple. Merlin’s golden eyes were fixed on the center of the lake, his heart beating a frantic rhythm while his breath had all but stopped. And then, glimmering like it had been newly forged, crested in gold, a sword began to rise.

He had waited. For one thousand and five hundred years, Merlin had waited. In Arthur’s life, Merlin’s only purpose was to protect and serve him. After Arthur’s death, Merlin’s immortal heart had remained beating for this single moment. And, he thought, as the man holding the sword finally broke the surface and Merlin let out laughing sob, it was worth it.

Arthur looked up, and, even though they were too far apart to be able to really see each other, made eye contact with the weeping sorcerer on the bank. He smiled, glowing like the slowly rising sun behind him, and the single word he uttered echoed across the now still water.

“Merlin.”  

  


 


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